


Who Knew He Knew Plato?

by lalalovesmusic3



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Era, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-05
Updated: 2015-06-05
Packaged: 2018-04-02 23:38:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4078261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lalalovesmusic3/pseuds/lalalovesmusic3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One evening at the Cafe Musain, a drunk Grantaire wanders into Enjolras' office. The interaction that happens between them makes Enjolras start to think Grantaire may be more than a useless, cynical, drunk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Who Knew He Knew Plato?

Grantaire stumbled into the sitting room, where Enjolras was reading intently. Grantaire smirked at him, Enjolras not noticing until Grantaire laughed into his bottle as he took another swig.   
Enjolras glanced to him and quickly returned to his reading, unfazed by this.   
“What, Grantaire?”  
He didn’t respond.   
“Grantaire, do you need something?”  
“Oh, I need a lot of things…” Grantaire murmured, laughing into his bottle.  
Enjolras slammed down his book and removed his glasses, fed up with the drunk.  
“If you would excuse my frankness, Grantaire, why are you even here?”  
Grantaire shrugged flamboyantly, frustrating Enjolras even more.  
“You don’t actively support the cause, you remain cynical about everything, you don’t even believe in the core concepts of our movement-”  
Grantaire nodded thoughtfully in agreement.   
Enjolras took a step away from his desk, pinching the bridge of his nose in his fingers.  
“God, Grantaire, do you even believe in anything?” he unleashed, quickly regretting all that he’d said, worried he’d taken it a little too far with his acquaintance.

Grantaire, though hurt, wasn’t surprised by his words. He just rolled his eyes, laughing again into his drink, “I believe in you,” he offered.  
Enjolras scoffed with a look of confusion on his face.  
“I believe in you. I believe that I, along with any other given poor man in France, is living in Hell, thanks to the King. I believe that the only plausible way for the high-nosed rich to even acknowledge our suffering is for people to take a stand. I believe you have a drive, skill, and passion unmatched by anyone I’ve ever met. I believe that with those you have the ability to make the royals crumble. And I believe in you,” he stated simply.

Enjolras, again, was taken back by the sudden courage and plainness, and even eloquence of Grantaire’s words. Especially in the state he was in. He could count on one hand the amount of times they’ve had an actual conversation, and even then Enjolras would usually walk away frustrated. Grantaire was always joking around and drinking, but often would be timid and submit under his scorning words. But he couldn’t stop a small smile from appearing on his face.   
“Oh, well, it’s a pleasant surprise to see that you do, actually, well, understand our socioeconomic issues, them being the basis of why we, at least the rest of us, are here. And thank you for believing I can make our voices heard, Grantaire,” he stammered. “I- appreciate that, I do,” he sighed, flustered by the situation.  
Grantaire beamed.

A few moments passed.

Enjolras looked at Grantaire, examining him. Although they had been in each other’s company for months, he still didn’t know him that well. He knew he loved alcohol and easy women- that was obvious. And he seemed to enjoy drawing, as he had seen Grantaire sitting at the bar, staring at something, scribbling mindlessly into a sketchbook. He’d never seen any of the sketches. He still had family in Paris; his mother came looking for him one night when the meetings of Les Amis had started. What did his family think of him now? The other men saw his crudeness and drunkenness, but he did always manage to entertain them and hold their friendships. Come to think of it, Enjolras was the only man of the group who hadn’t formed some sort of friendship with Grantaire. And Grantaire was the only man of the group who hadn’t formed some sort of friendship with Enjolras. He looked at Grantaire and just saw a matted mop of dark hair, messy clothes, a shiny forehead, and tough, worn hands holding a wine bottle. However this sudden burst of insight coming from the drunk began to have Enjolras think there was more in his brain than just, well, alcohol. 

“Well was that all?” Enjolras asked.  
Grantaire nodded and headed toward the door.   
“There will be no end to the troubles of states, or of humanity itself, till philosophers become kings in this world, or till those we now call kings and rulers really and truly become philosophers, and political power and philosophy thus come into the same hands,” he quoted, still walking to the door, facing away from Enjolras.   
Enjolras’s eyes grew wide.  
“Plato?” he questioned, continuing to be baffled by the man.  
Grantaire turned to him and nodded with a chuckle, raising his bottle to the man.   
After he made his exit, Enjolras just sat in pure shock and confusion. After a few minutes, he picked up his book again, but he had a hard time focusing on the reading.

**Author's Note:**

> Short and sweet. I loved this idea in my head. I was originally going to expand this into a longer fic, but I really liked where it stopped. I'll probably turn the other thoughts I had into another fic, where this can just be like a prelude to what happens and stuff. Or they can just be separate I don't know, I like to go this direction with their relationship in a lot of my fic ideas.


End file.
